Life and Time
by GhostWolf7
Summary: Sam and Dean meet an interesting person...one with a story of his own.
1. Chapter 1

Life and Time

Disclaimer: I do not claim to own Dean Wichester, Sam Winchester, Luther what's-his-face, or any other character you recognize from Supernatural. They belong to the powers that be. If there is another character somewhere out there named Josiah Abrams, I assure you all that it is a mere coincidence and is not intentional.

Chapter 1

Denver, Colorado

2006

With a slow and painful creak, the ancient door opened and a swirl of dust clouded the air. Like the dawn of creation, light flooded through the darkness that seemed to stretch beyond forever. In the new dawn, two silhouettes appeared in the doorway, their edges blurred by the swirling cloud of dust. One taller than the other, they entered the room, beams of light from their flashlights illuminating pieces of dust making a slow and lazy journey back to their earthen bed.

"What is this place?" Sam asked. The place smelled like earth and blood and a faint stench of rotting flesh. Lining the walls were old skeletons, still chained to the walls, their heads tilted back in their final moments of life.

"Hell if I know," Dean replied. He came to the other wall, expecting to find more dirt and rocks. Instead, he found a door. "Hey, Sam. There's a door here."

"Does it open?" Sam asked, still inspecting the skeletons with a mixed look of disgust and pity.

Dean gave the door an experimental push. It swung open with a low creak. "Oh my God," Dean breathed.

"What?" Sam asked coming over to see what had his brother so frozen. "Oh my God," Sam whispered.

In the room were two long metal poles, extending from the floor to the ceiling, slanted at an angle. Attached to these poles by chains was a naked man. His back was arched, gravity pulling it downwards, and his head was hanging, his eyes closed. Dean took a few cautious steps into the room, his light fixed on the prisoner. There were scars on the man's chest, arms, legs, and back. There were what looked like bite marks on his neck and even his shoulders, which were dislocated from hanging, the muscles in his shoulders looking as though they were ready to rip apart. Hanging around his neck was a saint medal, St. Michael the Archangel. "Holy shit," he heard Sam say under his breath.

"How long do you think he's been down here?" Sam asked.

"Can't be more than a couple weeks," Dean replied. "He hasn't decayed at all."

"That doesn't make any sense," Sam said back. "All the other bodies in this place are at least seventy-five years old. The door we came through felt like it hadn't been opened in thirty years. How does that work?"

"Well, I don't know," Dean retorted. "Why don't you tell me, College Boy?"

"I don't know, either, Dean," Sam said as the beam from Dean's flashlight roamed the man's broken body. "What's weird to me is the fact that he's not starved or malnourished, and there are no open wounds, just scars. He doesn't even look dead."

"So, what, this thing preserves his bodies like trophies?" Dean asked, confused. "All the other bodies are nothing but bones."

"Well, maybe this one was special," Sam suggested.

Dean snorted. "He must've been one bad ass son of a bitch to-"

Suddenly, Dean stopped. "Dean?" Sam asked. Dean shushed him; he had heard something. He looked around for a little bit before being half-satisfied that there was nothing out there. But then where had the sound come from? It had sounded like…breathing, very faint breathing. Dean turned back to the hanging man and saw something he hadn't noticed before. But, no, he thought. That couldn't be possible. He pulled his knife from its sheath placed behind his back and held it under the man's nose. "Dean?" Sam asked. "What're you doing?" But Dean wasn't listening. On the knife appeared a faint trace of condensation, gone in the blink of an eye. Dean kept the knife under the man's nose, just to be sure. There it was again!

"He's alive," Dean said, incredulous. "Sam, help me." Sam was next to him in a second, helping Dean break the chains that bound the man's hands and feet and pulling him down. The man groaned and his eyes groggily opened. "Hey," Dean said, patting the man's cheek with his hand. "Hey, dude, wake up." The man continued to moan, his head lolling weakly from side to side. "Hey, dude. You got a name?"

"Josiah Abrams," the man said, his voice barely above a whisper. He only got the words out once before passing out again.

The Winchester brothers stared at each other for a moment. "Well," Dean said, "this is awkward."


	2. Chapter 2

Life and Time

Disclaimer: I do not claim to own Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Luther what's-his-face, or any other character from Supernatural you recognize. They belong to the powers that be. If there is another character somewhere out there named Josiah Abrams, I assure you all it is mere coincidence and is not intentional.

Chapter 2

Providence, Rhode Island

1835

With a sickening thud, a man landed with a grunt as his back made contact with the wooden floor of the house. He shook his head, trying to regain his senses, getting enough back just in time to grab the end of a fire poker as it was thrusting towards his chest. He looked at the thing at the other end of the poker. It was a woman, about forty-five years old. She looked angry and broken as she screamed, "You won't hurt them! I won't let you hurt them!" The man underneath her curled his legs, placed his feet against her chest, and kicked out sending her tumbling off him. He pushed himself off the ground, standing up just in time to be hurled into a wall. As he slid down to his knees, dazed, a St. Michael the Archangel medal slid out from under his shirt.

"I won't let you hurt him," she screamed again, floating above the ground towards him with the poker. He covered his face and chest with his arms, waiting for the impact. But as it was about to come, he felt no poker pierce him. Instead, he heard something clang to the ground and felt a wave of solid heat pass over him, through him. He opened his eyes and slowly lowered his arms. It was gone.

"Are you alright, Joss?" said a voice behind him. The man on the ground turned around, looking in the direction of the voice. There was a young man there, his dark brown hair hanging just above his shoulders, looking down at the kneeling man with worried eyes.

"Well, it took you long enough," the man retorted. "What were you doing, Luther? Playing poker in the saloon?"

The other man, Luther, smiled. "Well, you know me," he said. "I can't resist a good game of poker."

"That's it," the kneeling man said, getting up. "You don't get to light up the bones anymore. Next time, you can fight the spirit while I save your butt in the knick of time." He grunted as he straightened his back. "Yeah, that's gonna hurt tomorrow."

"Come on, Josiah," Luther said. "I think you need a drink."

"Damn right, I do," the man, Josiah, said back, slipping the Saint medal back under his shirt. He turned towards Luther and the two walked out of the house without looking back.

---

The next morning, Josiah walked up to the church, looking at the sign as he walked by. St. Michael the Archangel Catholic Church, it said. He was greeted by the priest as he walked in. "Welcome, Brother Abrams," the priest said quietly. "Has our problem been solved?"

"It has," Josiah answered. "Your town won't be worrying about that house anymore."

"That is good news," the priest answered. Then he paused, looking at the man before him. "Where will you go now?" he asked.

"We're not sure," Josiah answered. "Have you heard of anything?" he asked, curious to see if the priest would have a new job for them.

"Actually," the priest said, "I have received word from the St. Michael's parish in Hartford. It seems they are suffering something peculiar and are in need of someone of your…special talents."

"Then that's where we will go next," Josiah said. "Thank you."

"Oh, no, Brother Abrams," the priest said to him. "All thanks go to you and your brother."

Josiah smiled and, nodding to the priest, turned and walked out. He mounted his horse, a proud black Arabian, and rode off to the hotel.

"Luther," he said when he got to their room. "Luther, are you ready to go?"

"One moment," Luther said back. He shoved his last shirt into the saddle bag he was busy with and closed it. "There," he said. "So, how did the meeting with the priest go?"

"We have a new job in Hartford," Josiah said, grabbing the saddle bag on his bed and slinging it over his shoulder.

"Great," Luther replied. "Let's go bag us some bitches."

"Luther," Josiah said, mimicking their old trainer. "Language is the gift of God, don't sully it with such words."

"Shut up," Luther said with a smile, throwing his blanket in Josiah's face.

"Alright, let's go," Josiah said. They went downstairs, checking out of the hotel and making their way to the stables. Josiah's horse was already saddled and waiting outside. Luther's horse, a big grey charger, its bloodline stretching back to the war chargers of ancient times, was contentedly munching on his breakfast of hay.

"Good morning, Arthur," Luther said to the horse, who raised his head and flicked his ears forward in greeting. Luther set about to work saddling and bridling his horse while Josiah walked out of the stables and over to his Arabian, finishing his packing on the porch in front of the hotel. While he was busy tying his blanket into a roll, the black horse reached out and nudged him. Josiah turned to see the horse looking at him expectantly.

"I haven't forgotten about you, Madhi," he said, pulling a sugar cube out of his shirt and handing it over to the horse, who took it before Josiah could do anything else. Josiah smiled and finished his work, then put the saddlebag and the blanket across his horse's back before mounting up in time to see Luther ride out on his horse.

"To Hartford?" Luther said, smiling.

"To Hartford," Josiah said, spurring his horse forward.


End file.
